


merry wanderer of the night

by shestepsintotheriver



Series: non-human Jaskier [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Flirting, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is So Done, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, Jaskier: i shall cause problems on purpose, M/M, Mischief, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Tricksters, cameos from other characters - Freeform, no chill is had, toss a clue to your witcher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25085311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shestepsintotheriver/pseuds/shestepsintotheriver
Summary: Geralt gets hired to deal with a devil. Not that devils are real: it's probably an incubus, or maybe a puck.It’s not. It’s a trickster.And now he has a whole other problem. Namely that the trickster keeps showing up just to spite him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: non-human Jaskier [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785946
Comments: 254
Kudos: 1702
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, The Witcher Alternate Universes





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> finish my other WIPs, you say? i'm sorry, that sort of logic don't work on me

There are times when Geralt questions his reasons for being on the Path. Most times, those musings are caused by dealing with nobility. Fuck nobility. What do they know? Nothing, that’s what.

They do pay the best, though. Stupidity notwithstanding.

“It’s a devil,” the lord declares.

Geralt restrains himself from sighing loudly. ‘Devils’ are not real but try telling the humans that. Instead, he asks, “How do you know it’s a devil?”

“Oh. Well,” the lord blusters. He doesn’t know, is the thing. “It’s not the first time he strikes! I’ve heard stories! He’s a menace, I tell you!”

Next to him, his son pouts. Geralt eyes him shrewdly; he hasn’t been called on to speak since Geralt entered their hall, but the recalcitrant look in his eyes tells Geralt more than the lord probably wants him to know. Namely that he’s being hired to deal with the son’s paramour.

Really, he should’ve become a blacksmith. A Witcher blacksmith. Anything to not deal with these people.

“Unless you are certain that this is a monster…” he says with a pointed look at the son.

“It is!” the lord maintains. The son rolls his eyes.

The story emerges in pieces, painstakingly drawn from the lord; his son and the ‘devil’ have been having ‘ _relations_ ’. ‘ _Unholy_ relations’ that his son ‘clearly has been ensorcelled’ to engage in as he is a ‘good, pious boy’ who would ‘never engage in such unnatural acts’ otherwise. Geralt doubts that very much but doesn’t say anything. Part of being a successful Witcher is knowing when to keep your mouth shut—doubly so when dealing with sensitive nobles.

“It’s likely an incubus,” he says when the lord is done detailing its unnatural allure.

“He’s not an incubus,” the son says with a sneer. The lord shushes him, but Geralt will take what legit information he can get, even from someone clearly displeased that he’s here. In the son’s place, Geralt wouldn’t be pleased either, but fuck no is he sympathizing with anybody here.

Whatever. It still begs the question: what the hell is this thing? He’d like to go into this job knowing at least what he’ll be dealing with. The lord, however, is attached to the idea of the devil and doesn’t want to move from that; he can’t even tell Geralt what the creature looks like, despite having caught it in his son’s room:

“It just went up in smoke, poof!” he says.

“Nothing to add?” Geralt asks the son.

The son just sneers. Geralt _hmm_ s and stares until the brat looks away, cowed.

He doubts he’ll be getting any more out of either of them, so this is just going to have to do. Based on the available evidence, the creature is at least capable of making itself attractive to humans, so likely humanoid to some degree. Add in the subtle magic, and it could be an exceptionally strong puck. It doesn’t quite add up, but it’s possible. Better than ‘devil’, at least.

But that brings another issue: Geralt doesn’t kill intelligent beings.

“It’s against our code,” he insists.

“It is _sullying_ my son!” the lord insists angrily, while the son looks thoroughly pleased to have been sullied.

“Not my problem,” he says.

*

It becomes Geralt’s problem. Mostly because the guards won’t let him leave.

He has agreed to ‘take care of it’—meaning that he’s going to scare it off, and nothing more. Killing something just because it’s different from you is not what a Witcher is for. If he was, well. There’d be no more Witchers either then. 

He leaves the lord and his son to scream at each other in the hall (despite being about a monster, it sounds like every other argument he’s ever heard between a stubborn lord and his entitled son, most of it consisting of “ _you never want me to be happy_!”. Humans have such odd problems). The guards lead him to the son’s bedchambers to await the monstrous lover.

Sometimes, Geralt really feels like a chambermaid for humanity.

The bedsheets have already been arranged to look like the son is curled up under them. The puck _will_ show again, the lord had claimed, as there were ‘signs’ that it had every night since he’d caught the lovers the first time. No matter what they did, the puck found a way in (or, more likely, the son found a way to _let_ it in). Geralt sees—or rather, smells—those signs for himself, the musk and sweat of sex that even fresh sheets cannot cover completely.

Beneath all that is the puck’s own scent; darker than expected, almost wild. Not the meadow grass you’d expect, but animalistic and sticky sweet. The son had had some of that scent on his skin still, Geralt had smelled it from across the room. It’s not unpleasant, even if it’s a little heavy. 

Geralt hides in the shadows by the window and waits. He’s brought his silver sword, in case he’s wrong and it _is_ a monster that needs quick dispatching. Pucks are susceptible to silver, too, and the threat of true injury will likely be enough to dissuade it from future visits, or so Geralt hopes. This puck already seems foolhardy and more than a bit spiteful to boot, so odds are, he’s going to have to at least slap it around a little. Just another day in the life of a Witcher.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

The puck clearly has a sense of drama about it, for it waits until the moon is clear in the sky to make its way into the manor. Geralt hears it coming, hears it clattering up the trellis, which—why doesn’t it just appear in the bedchamber? Why climb—

The puck is singing a ballad under its breath. Gods have mercy, it’s trying to be _romantic_.

Geralt nobly refrains from stabbing himself in the thigh and claiming that he won’t be able to work tonight (not that he thinks it would work; humans have very little care for Witchers, and being half-dead wouldn’t get him an ounce of mercy).

Minutes later, the puck scrambles through the window. Effortlessly, Geralt slips the point of his blade under its chin, and the puck freezes. “Leave,” Geralt orders. “And don’t come back. Or next time, I won’t be so courteous.”

The puck turns his head slowly, blinking. In the light of the moon, the silvery blue of his eyes seems to glow, highlighted even more by the pale colour of his doublet and trousers. He’s got thick, dark hair, a boyishly rounded face, and a triangular little nose. Not a speck of inhumanity to be seen. Geralt’s medallion vibrates madly.

That is _not_ a puck.

“Fuck,” Geralt says, just as the not-puck starts advancing on him, an absolutely ecstatic smile on his face even as the silver lightly singes the skin of his throat. Somehow, Geralt ends up with his back to the wall, the creature held at bay only by the length of his sword.

“ _Hello_ ,” the trickster purrs. “What a gorgeous creature you are—look, can you put the sword down? It stings. It’s hard being charming when you can literally feel your skin peeling off.”

“Then back off,” Geralt growls.

“ _Fine_.” The trickster backs up two steps. Small steps. Just enough to be out of range. He’s still grinning like all his wishes have come true. Geralt frantically racks his brain for what to do.

Witchers don’t mess with tricksters unless absolutely forced to. Tricksters are… not exactly harmless, but they don’t tend to go on rampages or kill for fun. They’re just annoying. Gleefully so. They’ve got a lot in common with pucks and dopplers, except also not really. Tricksters are more like if you start with a common puck and then strike it with lightning to make a semi-divine little pest, because obviously there are not enough problems in the world.

“I’ll ask you again,” Geralt says. “Leave this place and never return.”

“Hmm, let me think about it.” The trickster pauses, taps his chin. “No.”

Geralt could try stabbing him. Silver clearly has an effect—except the scratch on its throat has already scabbed over, pink and pretty. Not even Geralt heals that fast. Great. Fucking great. If it comes to a fight, they might be evenly matched. _Do not let on_. _Stall_. “Do you know who I am?”

“Ooh! Guessing games!” the trickster cries. He eyes Geralt closely, those pale eyes running over every inch of him. Geralt doesn’t squirm, but only because squirming is not something a Witcher does. “Let’s see. Long, white hair. Brooding beauty. _Stunning_ yellow eyes. A silver sword. And a _lot_ of leather, oh my… you must be a Witcher. Geralt of Rivia.”

Why did he have to roll the r’s? Also, more generally: what the fuck.

“Then you know my reputation,” Geralt says. “And know that I won’t hesitate—”

“This is the part where you ask _my_ name,” the trickster interrupts, pouting.

Geralt blinks. “No.”

The outrage on the trickster’s face is at least amusing.

*

Geralt does learn the name though. Mostly because the trickster keeps introducing himself. His name is Jaskier. _Buttercup_. Because of course it is.

The one good thing to come out of today is that Geralt does manage to convince Jaskier to leave the lord’s manor and son alone without bloodshed. Or, well, maybe ‘convince’ isn’t the right word. It’s more that Jaskier has fixated on annoying Geralt instead (he doesn’t even seem to mourn walking away from his lover) and is now trailing after him like a lost duckling and he will. Not. Stop. _Talking._

“—and that’s how I got banned from Oxenfurt Academy,” he says. He’s acquired a lute from somewhere. Geralt really doesn’t know. He turned his back for one second, and when he turned back around, Jaskier had a lute. He’s not going to question it. Mostly because Jaskier will definitely tell him, and then keep talking, and that’s what Geralt is trying to avoid.

It is. Not going well.

“Do you like music?” Jaskier continues. “I trained as a bard before being ruthlessly cast out from—”

“I don’t like music.”

“Well, that’s too bad, because I’m going to play some. Listen to this!” And then he starts playing _Fishmonger’s Daughter_ and skipping along the path, stopping every now and then to wait for Geralt to catch up. Geralt would like it noted that he’s _not_ following the trickster. The trickster is following him, and the only reason he hasn’t abandoned Jaskier yet is because Roach is stabled at the inn down the road.

But when Geralt gets to Roach? This involuntary companionship is _over_.

*

Except that is not how it goes.

Oh, their roads part eventually, but not because of anything Geralt does. Jaskier claims that he has business elsewhere, but “I shall ache for you every moment of our parting, but be not afraid, we shall meet again, dear heart.”

“We shan’t,” Geralt protests. Is protesting useless? Yes. Is Geralt aware of this? Very. See also: the ‘dear heart’ discussion. Jaskier started calling him that two days ago, and every time Geralt bares his teeth, Jaskier uses it _more._ Geralt doesn’t even know _why_ he uses it.

“Have faith,” Jaskier promises. He likes to purposefully misunderstand everything Geralt says. “Now wish me a pleasant journey.”

“No.”

Jaskier stomps. “Geralt! I demand a proper goodbye!”

Geralt closes his eyes and sighs. Can’t Jaskier just fuck off? He’d never thought he’d one day wish for the abhorrence that most of humanity (and all other intelligent species) treat Witchers with, but fuck, would it be nice if Jaskier could develop even an ounce of disregard for him.

Eager to be rid of the nuisance, Geralt turns and says, “Bye.”

And then Jaskier throws himself at Geralt.

Geralt pulls a knife at once, pushing Jaskier up against a tree and baring his teeth. For some reason, Jaskier only pouts, then tilts his head up and pushes his throat into the bite of the knife. Not hard enough to cause any real damage, but enough to make the blade rasp against his skin.

“We really need to train you to accept a hug,” Jaskier says.

“What.”

“You know, a hug? An embrace? Something you do with your dear friends—”

“We’re not friends.” Geralt hasn’t pulled away yet, still holding Jaskier against the tree with a blade at his throat. Jaskier’s pupils have gotten really large. Is this some kind of trickster magic? If so: what is the purpose?

“Yes, we are!” Jaskier argues. “Who else would you let tag along with you like this?”

Geralt hasn’t _let_ Jaskier do anything. If he had the ability to _let_ Jaskier do anything, he would _let_ Jaskier walk off into the sunset and never return. He communicates as much by pressing the blade a little. “We are not friends.”

“I think you’ll find that we are.” Jaskier wriggles. Their chests bump. “Or would you prefer ‘lovers to be’?”

“What.”

Jaskier pats his cheek. “We need to work on your flirting, it’s quite—careful with the blade, Geralt! It’s all fun and games until someone starts bleeding. Blood isn’t sexy. Knife at throat? Sexy. The tension is _unreal._ ”

Geralt backs up at once, scowling at Jaskier. Deciding to ignore whatever fit the trickster is having, he walks back to Roach, who’s peacefully nipping at some grass while her rider and the pest that follows him have their little spat. 

“ _Geralt_. Geeeeraaaaaaalt,” Jaskier whines. “Let me say goodbye. Ge _ralt_!”

Geralt ignores him. Maybe then he’ll go away. (Not that ignoring him has worked even once this past week. And, fuck—Jaskier has been following him _for a week._ Maybe this is a nightmare.) He swings himself up into the saddle.

Because he apparently enjoys endangering his own life, Jaskier comes to stand by his side, curling his hand around Geralt’s ankle. He looks up at Geralt and smiles. “We will meet again, dear Witcher. Don’t you worry.”

And then, of all things, he presses a soft kiss to Geralt’s knee and walks off.

Geralt stares after him, a frown on his face. Then he heaves a very put-upon sigh and turns Roach down another path. He doubt’s they’ll see each other again. Jaskier had abandoned his lover of several weeks so easily and without regret, entirely heedless of the love the lord’s son had had for him. A creature such as he doesn’t have much care for anyone; he’ll have forgotten Geralt in a few minutes. 

*

There is a small chance that Geralt may be a fucking idiot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all are the best, thank u so much

At first, Geralt doesn’t see Jaskier for a few months. The trickster’s existence still niggles at him when he’s not otherwise occupied, the same way that a young, ferocious princess once did, or his Child Surprise, or, for a long time, Yennefer.

Still, as time passes by and Jaskier doesn’t pop up to annoy him at inopportune times, Geralt cautiously relegates him to the list of things he doesn’t have to actively worry about.

That’s when people start singing at him. Sometimes, they even throw coins at him, too.

The first few times, it happens in taverns. The people there are three sheets to the wind and their singing is just a few steps above incoherent mumbling, so Geralt doesn’t think much of it, even if he is surprised to find himself in non-confrontational human interactions. Then, as he’s walking down the road, a child on the back of a wagon squeals when she sees him and starts a loud and not particularly accurate rendition of the same song he’d heard in the tavern. The one lyric that doesn’t get replaced by lala-ing is _toss a coin to your Witcher! O valley of pleennnntyyyyy._

Geralt’s eye twitches.

After that, it gets sung at him _all the fucking time._ If he makes camp too close to a band of human travellers, they sing it. If he’s in an inn, they sing it. If he’s inquiring about a job, someone hums it. One time, a Huldra even sings it at him—and given that he’s not hunting her, just passing by, he’s more than a little offended.

The coins are alright though. There are worse things than being given free money.

But the song. The fucking song. Or rather: song _s._ Because it doesn’t stop at just one; right when Geralt has learned to tune out the bloody _Toss a Coin_ tune (that’s a lie: that song sticks in your head _forever,_ but he’s at least learned to live with it), the next song comes. _Song of the White Wolf_ , or some such nonsense. This one is maudlin, and people are very bad at hitting the high notes.

And then the next one. And the next. And the next.

One night, a peasant lets it slip that the ‘master bard, Dandelion’ is the one to have written the songs. “It’s a stage name, ‘course,” the peasant slurs, more than a little overwhelmed both by the ale and the Witcher glaring at him. “’is real name’s Jaskier.”

Geralt is going to _end_ that little shit if they ever cross paths again.

*

The worst thing, however, the part that he’ll never, ever forgive Jaskier for… is that Lambert finds out about it, and in the worst possible way. In Witcher terms, Lambert is as good as Geralt’s younger brother, and on top of that he’s also a prick, so he’s more or less the worst person who could overhear it. Eskel would’ve been preferred. Hell, even Coën, who is like a younger cousin.

But no, because Destiny has it out for Geralt, it’s Lambert.

They’re in a tavern, more or less enjoying one another’s company. Lambert is in a shitty mood—not because anything in particular, being in a shitty mood is just his normal state. Geralt endures it without a word; for once, he’s having an alright night. Nothing’s wrong, he’d gotten paid well at his last job, and despite Lambert’s best attempts, Geralt does enjoy his brother’s company.

A drunk stumbles into their table, slurring apologies. His eyes lock on Geralt. Geralt _feels_ it coming, like a charging bull. He briefly considers knocking him out, knows he cannot afford to do so. Maybe he should knock Lambert out instead. Or himself.

What makes it all infinitely worse is that the drunk appears to know all the words to the fucking _Toss a Coin_ song and insists on belting them out unaccountably loudly. There’s nothing to do but endure it. His glare must be losing its touch. How strange, to miss the days when humans fled at the sight of him.

When the drunk finally keels over, still slurring the last verse, Geralt risks a look at his brother—and quickly regrets it.

Complete and utter glee has taken up residence on Lambert’s face; teeth bared in a manic grin, yellow eyes wide, his hair almost standing on end with how excited he is to be able to lord this over Geralt for _ever._ As if in a vision, Geralt sees that song being sung to the end of his days. Hell, Lambert might even sing it over his grave, just to spite him.

Suddenly, Geralt enjoys his company a whole lot less.

Also: Jaskier is a dead man.

*

Just a few days later, Jaskier finds him.

Geralt does not, at first, know that it is Jaskier. Mostly because Jaskier has taken the shape of a squirrel. Geralt may have a soft spot for any and all animals, despite their abhorrence of Witchers (except Eskel, and there are many who envy him for that). They look very soft and he’d like to pet one—skinning rabbits or deer for food doesn’t count. As such, when the small, reddish brown critter appears in his camp, he stills and tries not to scare it away.

The squirrel is the fluffiest thing Geralt has ever seen; he doubts there’s much meat on it, but it’s very handsome, for a squirrel, with tufted ears and big, dumb eyes. It scrambles up and over his saddlebags, looking around for… something. Maybe the hardtack. As long as it doesn’t go for the bag with his potions, it’ll be—

It goes for the bag with his potions.

Geralt lunges, but the damn thing takes off, a bottle in its mouth. What follows is a mad scramble, but despite Geralt’s enhanced speed and agility, the squirrel keeps just out of reach. The foremost goal is to keep it from getting into any trees—which he succeeds in; the squirrel only manages to climb Geralt himself at one point, and Geralt dearly hopes that no one was witness to that. There was a lot of slapping his own limbs.

Finally, Geralt gets his hands around it. Which is when it starts to swell.

One moment, he’s holding a squirrel; the next, he’s holding Jaskier around the waist (he has the sense of mind to be thankful that the trickster emerged fully clothed). Jaskier beams at him, completely ignoring the glare and bared teeth he gets in return.

“Is this White Gull?” he asks excitedly. He’s still got hold of the little bottle and shakes it just a little. “I’ve always wanted to try White Gull. Does it really make you hallucinate? It is like poppy-milk?”

“Give it,” Geralt demands. “Now. _Give it back_.”

Jaskier pouts. “Fine.” He holds it out; Geralt snatches it away with a scowl. “You really should share with your friend though. Speaking of! As your very best friend—”

“We’re not fucking friends, Jaskier.”

“—I am here to invite you as my plus-one to the village gathering of the year. There will be everything your heart desires: food, wine, me—”

“No.”

Jaskier tilts his head, hands on his hips. He studies Geralt for a few moments, eyes lingering on his scowling mouth, before grinning and turning away. “I’ll see you later, Geralt! Just follow the sound of—ow! Get that sword out of my face! We’ve had this conversation! No blood!”

“Leave,” Geralt says through clenched teeth, not removing his blade.

Jaskier sighs. “Why must you make everything so hard, Geralt? And I do mean everything.” In a flash, he disappears. He reappears a few yards away and waves. “I’ll see you later!” And he’s gone.

“No,” Geralt says into the silence he leaves behind.

He’s packing up Roach and ignoring the invisible tug drawing him east to where he knows the village to be, when he realizes that he didn’t even get a chance to yell at Jaskier about the songs.

That is the _only_ reason he heads to the village. He deserves to get that off his chest. 

*

It’s too noisy and Geralt hasn’t even reached the nucleus of the feast yet.

It’s some sort of festival for the goddess Dana Meadbh or a local equivalent. Harvest, fertility, something to that matter. Geralt is not well-versed in local festivals, barely even keeps track of the major, Continent-wide ones. Witchers aren’t religious and keeping with traditions such as these is rare among their kind.

He leaves Roach at the treeline, pulls his shoulders back, and walks up.

There are so many people; so many voices, so many scents. What had been a babbling brook from afar is now a roaring waterfall and it is much too much. He should turn around and leave. The odd stares he gets make it clear that his presence isn’t appreciated. They’re not hostile yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

He’s about to turn around when he spots Jaskier.

At the centre of the crowd, the trickster is seated on a table, kicking his feet and watching the crowd intently. When Geralt starts making his way to him—to drag him off and cuss him out for the stupid songs, not because right now, Jaskier is the quiet eye of the storm and Geralt needs that stability—Jaskier spots him and his face lights up in a grin.

Then, horribly, he mouths, “ _Watch this_!” and turns to the lady next to him.

Geralt doesn’t hear the exact words he says. The lady straightens up, turns around, and storms up to a very important looking man. Then comes the yelling about unfaithfulness and pointed fingers at another woman, who flushes bright red. The man pales. And pales even more as a man who is obviously the second woman’s husband flies into a rage and throws himself across the way to pummel him.

It doesn’t stop there. Pandemonium has been released.

*

When Geralt finally breaks from the mob, he’s got Jaskier slung across his shoulder, a firm grip on the back of his thighs as the trickster laughs his idiot head off. There’s ale on Geralt’s shirt; someone had thrown the whole barrel in a fit of pique. Geralt had been lucky not to catch it with his face.

He glances back towards the screeching crowd and considers trying to mediate it. Quickly discards that notion, because it is not his problem, and the children had quickly been whisked away to safety, so it’s only the cheating spouses running wild.

Instead, his problem has brown hair, blue eyes, and the sense of a spiteful goose. 

“This is why I get hired to kill you,” he snaps at Jaskier.

“That was _glorious_ ,” Jaskier crows, wriggling against Geralt. “Did you see me out there? Just one whisper, and _bam_! Ooh, and I got so many shiny things!”

At that, Geralt drops him. “You _stole_ from them?”

“Yesssss.”

This idiot. This godsdamned menace. Geralt blows out a deep, angry breath. This is not his problem. He’s not going to get involved. They’re just trinkets, it doesn’t matter. But.

He pats Jaskier down, much to the other’s vocal enjoyment. He pushes into Geralt’s palms, leering and laughing at the deepening scowl on Geralt’s face.

“And without even buying me dinner first!”

“Shut _up_ , Jaskier.”

When he’s done, he can only stare. In his hands are all of Jaskier’s stolen, shiny things. And they are _things_. It’s not jewellery or money, or anything useful. Hell, Geralt doubts it’s even worth a whole lot, even if it is shiny.

Instead, Jaskier has stolen what seems to be every spoon from the village.

“Why?” Geralt asks, the word tumbling unwillingly from his mouth.

Jaskier holds up two fingers. “Watch this.”

With an air of great importance, he picks up two spoons and jumps up on a fallen tree. Holding the spoons aloft, he watches Geralt intensely. Geralt takes a few steps back, unsure what kind of trickster magic Jaskier is about to perform, when, finally, Jaskier brings the spoons together.

… and starts tapping out the as-of-yet worst rendition Geralt has heard of _Toss a Coin._

Standing there agape, Geralt doesn’t have the first clue what to do. Jaskier enjoys his astonishment, flapping his arms even more and swaying, putting as much gusto into the weird little performance as he can.

Finally, Geralt unearths a response: “What the fuck.”

*

He never does find out what the fuck that was all about.

He tries asking, of course. Sensible questions like, “why would you steal _spoons_?”, to which he gets nonsense answers such as, “it’s not about the spoons, Geralt.” What is he supposed to do with that answer? He _hmm_ s frustratedly. Now he really wants to know. 

Jaskier leaves him in the dust, cackling merrily at the utter disgust on Geralt’s face, swearing to see him again soon. Before he leaves, he grasps Geralt’s hand, and Geralt is still befuddled enough to let him.

“Until we meet again, dear Witcher,” the trickster proclaims and presses a soft kiss to Geralt’s knuckles, as gently as if Geralt were a maiden.

Geralt pulls his hands back and makes aggressive eye contact as he wipes his hand off on his trousers. “Piss off.”

“Rude!”

*

The phantom press of lips lingers long after Jaskier has disappeared to gods know where (hopefully, oceans away from here). Geralt rubs at it again and again. If that little prick has given him a rash, there will be hell to pay.

*

He’s just to fall asleep that night when he remembers that he never got to yell at Jaskier about the songs. He turns over angrily and swears that he’ll do so next time.

And then realizes that he’s fully expecting there to be a next time and regrets a whole lot of life choices. The spot Jaskier had kissed still tingles. He probably _did_ get a rash.


	3. Chapter 3

After that, Jaskier starts popping up at both opportune and inopportune hours, up to and including when Geralt’s in the middle of a hunt, on the edge of true sleep, or whenever he’s about to take a bath. Jaskier seems to have a sixth sense for when his presence would be most annoying and promptly presents himself, uncaring of the scowls Geralt sends his way. He just natters and prods and sometimes helps Geralt wash his hair (Geralt is very suspicious of the latter but stops pulling a knife on Jaskier after the first few times—especially because the knife just makes Jaskier leer.)

Jaskier doesn’t always arrive in his familiar brown-haired guise. He often appears as animals—squirrels, rabbits, foxes, magpies, blue jays, one time even a rooster, though that was mainly to annoy Geralt by walking behind him and crowing like he was dying (that one was after an argument).

As a human, he largely sticks to the shape that Geralt is most familiar with and perhaps erroneously considers Jaskier’s ‘true’ shape. But Jaskier is capable of changing his human shape, too, and will sometimes find Geralt in the guise of a stranger—or even looking like Geralt himself, though that has never again been repeated, as Geralt’s gut instinct was to punch him in the face. (He hadn’t even meant to, his training just kicked in. The whining that followed was the worst.)

As a result of Geralt’s gradual (if extremely grudging) acceptance of his company, Jaskier gets bolder and bolder with the liberties he takes with Geralt’s person. The hug that Geralt had misconstrued as an attack when they first met becomes a common occurrence, starting with just one arm around his shoulders, then a full-body embrace that Jaskier puts his not inconsiderable efforts into. Geralt lets him do it but doesn’t join. Best let him get it out of his system. (Also, Jaskier seems to have some kind of magic that leaves the recipients of his hugs warm and loose. Geralt doesn’t remember this from the bestiary.)

What also amps up, however, is the teasing kisses that Jaskier scatters like seeds in a field. Every one of them leaves a buzzing under Geralt’s skin that lingers for the rest of the day. He suspects that Jaskier might use a balm on his lips that causes the itch. (He hasn’t asked Jaskier about it.) It only gets worse as the cheeky, faux-chivalrous kisses on Geralt’s knuckles becomes playful pecks on his cheeks or the line of his jaw. But Geralt is not going to break now. Jaskier is clearly testing him and Geralt will _not be bested._

(He’s not quite sure what the test is, but there’s sure to be one.)

*

It’s been a few months since they first met, and Geralt spends more time with Jaskier than without, and that means that when he does travel alone and chances upon a friend on the road, what stories he shares eventually circle back around to Jaskier. Especially because Jaskier keeps doing weird shit that keeps Geralt awake at night.

By virtue of being his best friend and the person he’s connected to by Destiny (well, djinn wish, but he apologized for that), Yennefer is the one to bear the brunt of Geralt’s pondering over the trickster’s machinations.

One morning, she finds him in front of the fireplace in her house, his chin resting on his folded hands as he stares at the embers and frowns.

“Tell me you’re not still brooding over the spoons,” she says.

“Hmm.” He _is_ still brooding over the spoons. The entire thing haunts him. What was the point? What could it possibly have accomplished? It’s not like anyone had even known that Jaskier was the one to steal the spoons, so it’s not for the acclaim, so _why_? He’s not going to admit to still being stuck on that though, so instead he claims: “He’s started leaving things in my pack.”

“And you are worried why…?”

Geralt shrugs. They’re not cumbersome things, just odd. Jaskier left him a pretty rock once. Some amber another time. A little pouch filled with mint leaves and lemongrass. A small bouquet of forget-me-nots. A piece of deer antler. A couple of very old coins that had gone out of use. He’s a little magpie, and he’s using Geralt’s pack as his nest.

“So, you’re not worried,” Yennefer summarizes, eyeing him shrewdly, “you just want to, what, talk about him?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, instead goes to get breakfast. “When am I meeting him?”

For a brief, intense second, Geralt imagines all the ways in which Yennefer’s Chaos and Jaskier’s might intertwine and create a hole in the universe that’ll bring on a never-ending second conjunction of the spheres. Imagines the sheer mayhem left in their wake. Imagines them bonding over verbally outwitting him at every turn.

Geralt starts to sweat. “ _Never_.”

(Much, much later, Jaskier finds his own way to Yennefer. Geralt likes to say _I told you so_ to everyone who is left agape and aghast in their wake.)

*

It’s not that Geralt and Jaskier never fight. They do.

Jaskier’s never met a silence he didn’t like to fill—and when he _is_ silent, he’s plotting, and that puts Geralt even more on edge. Geralt, however, likes his quiet, even as he grows used to Jaskier’s company; he’s not as much of a loner as people think, it’s just that it’s rare for a Witcher to be welcome in social gatherings. He likes being around other people just fine.

But Jaskier tests his patience.

He drags Geralt into squabbles that Geralt has absolutely no interest in being a part of. Jaskier’s never met a boundary he didn’t like to push, never experienced true consequences for his actions (“the consequences of my actions fall on _other_ people, Geralt, not on me!”), and takes an unholy amount of joy in causing general chaos. Part of it is because he’s a trickster; another is that Jaskier is easily bored.

It drives Geralt up the wall.

*

Slowly, Geralt realizes that they’re friends. No, he doesn’t know how they got there either.

Jaskier has called him a friend from the beginning, but Geralt is certain that that was to annoy him, not a statement of truth.

But now, Geralt finds that he himself has started putting in an effort (he’s pretty sure he got tricked into it, but he keeps doing it, even after he finds out.) He has firm and uncomplimentary opinions on Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris (has he ever met the man? No. Does that matter? No. Geralt doesn’t like him.) If he’s at the market, he makes sure to pick up a small bag of nuts for Jaskier to munch on (hazelnuts are his favourites.) If they’re dining together at an inn, he arranges his plate so that the especially fragrant or spiced pieces are within reach of Jaskier, and Jaskier lets him have the portions he likes better from Jaskier’s own plate.

Geralt knows entirely too much about him. Which fashions he likes the best, how he looks when he’s composing, what sounds he makes in his sleep, where he was born, which arts he’s educated in, what he thinks of monarchy, and religion, and a thousand other things.

In return, Jaskier has learned how to read his _hmm_ s, how to help him set up camp, how to coax him into conversation. He knows to keep an eye on Roach’s health and how to bandage Geralt’s wounds (which is never done without a slew of sarcastic chastisement like “don’t you know how to duck? Are you too old to bend like that?”). His presence becomes pleasant, his voice soothing rather than grating, and Geralt can even admit that the little shit is quite funny.

He resigns himself to being stuck with Jaskier. (It feels a little bit like satisfaction.)

*

Even then, there’s still the niggling feeling that there’s something that Geralt is missing. It only grows stronger the longer they stay together. Sometimes, Jaskier seem to be waiting for him to do something. Geralt can’t quite put his finger on what that is, and it nags at him.

Does he bother to ask Jaskier about it? No.

Instead, he makes little adjustments to his routine. Makes room for Jaskier to share his space, rides Roach less often to keep pace side by side, keeps Jaskier’s odd little trinkets safe until Jaskier either throws them away, or the pack gets too heavy. He allows more hugs and kisses, either opening his arms or tilting his head down so that Jaskier can reach him easily. Jaskier has started to kiss the dimple of his chin when they hug (which has… side effects on Geralt that he viciously subdues. He really needs to visit a brothel soon, if he gets worked up about a simple kiss just because it’s close to his mouth.)

Still Jaskier looks at him like he’s puzzling him out.

It comes to a head the day Jaskier meets Coën. 

*

They’ve been arguing. Geralt can’t remember what started it, but it was probably stupid. What he does know is that the arguing caused him to be inattentive to the witch he’d been hired to deal with, and he’d ended up wolf-shaped. Rather than being helpful, Jaskier had turned into a fox and tried to annoy Geralt into running around the forest with him, nipping at his hackles or pulling at his tail.

When Geralt finally regained human shape—the curse was mild, merely a two-hour bind—he’d been angry enough to stalk away. The witch had disappeared, and Geralt hadn’t gotten paid. Anger is logical.

Did Jaskier understand that? No. Instead, he kept bleating about how Geralt should loosen up, how he didn’t know a good thing when it was presenting itself right in front of him, and how it wasn’t the end of the world to have lost out on one job.

Fed up, Geralt had snapped that Jaskier didn’t know shit and was a torn in Geralt’s side. The former was true: Jaskier really doesn’t know what it’s like to have responsibilities he can’t weasel his way out of, doesn’t know what it’s like to go hungry, probably hasn’t been troubled a day in his life. The latter: well. Geralt hadn’t been thinking clearly (but admitting that out loud is… not an option.)

Which means that for the past hours, Jaskier has been perched in a tree, jabbering furiously in Geralt’s direction. Oh, and he’s taken the shape of a kingfisher (presumably so that his colourful plumage with catch Geralt’s eye every time he tries to focus on skinning the skinny rabbit he’s caught for dinner.) He can make as much noise as he pleases; Geralt isn’t going to apologize first.

Halfway through cooking the rabbit, he senses Coën’s approach.

The younger Witcher enters the clearing slowly, his perpetually bloodshot eyes fixed on the tree that Jaskier sits in. When he raises a brow at Geralt, Geralt just shakes his head and bids him join him (thankfully, Coën has brought a couple of grouse, so Geralt can even invite him to sup with him without either of them going hungry.)

“Strange company you keep,” Coën remarks, still eyeing the tree curiously.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier doesn’t appear to say hello. He’s even gone quiet, which should please Geralt, but mostly, he just suspects that there will be dire consequences to such unusual silence. He keeps a steady watch on the tree, ears attuned to the rustle of feathers and the scrabbling of claws on wood.

Coën and Geralt talk little as they eat, exchanging what news they have from the Path. They’re both preoccupied by Jaskier; Coën because he’s curious and young enough for certain creatures to still be new to him; Geralt because he’s made up a plate for Jaskier, and the trickster hasn’t shown to claim it yet.

“What is… he?” Coën finally asks with a flick of his fingers towards Jaskier.

“A pain in my ass,” Geralt grunts.

From the tree, Jaskier screeches, _“Rude!”_

“Hmm.”

Coën tilts his head. “Alright, but seriously: what is he?”

“Incapable of being helpful.”

“Oh, that’s so not what happened, and you know it!” comes the outraged cry.

Geralt ignores him.

The standoff lasts almost the whole night. The food on Jaskier’s plate has long gone cold, but Geralt leaves it where it is; with both Geralt and Coën around, it’s unlikely to draw animals close to the camp. Coën stays for the night, silently observing the annoyed glances and grumbles Geralt throws in Jaskier’s direction.

In the middle of the night, Geralt wakes to the feel of a bird settling on his chest, a soft little bundle of feathers and pique. He doesn’t let on, just stays still. Like this, Jaskier smells odd, of dirt and leaves and the meat he’d managed to gobble down after the Witchers had turned in (Geralt wonders if he turned back to human before eating, or if he swallowed the food down, bones and all. If he wakes up to Jaskier chucking up rabbit bones on his chest, there will be hell to pay.)

*

In the morning, they’re both still snippy despite the shared bedroll. Jaskier is as impossible as ever, despite having finally regained human shape. He’s courteous to Coën, if a little more reserved than usual, all due to him dividing his time between prattling at Coën and glaring at Geralt.

His indignation is strong enough that he refuses the nuts Geralt offers him with a, “Oh, I didn’t think pleasure was allowed in this camp.”

Geralt, beyond fed up, growls, “Fuck you, Jaskier.”

“Fuck me yourself, coward,” Jaskier spits back and wanders off to whisper at Roach and throw reproachful looks over his shoulder.

Geralt sighs. “Fucking impossible.”

“Right. Impossible,” Coën agrees, but he sounds vaguely despairing as he says it. Geralt squints at him. He doesn’t like that tone; it sounds way too much like it’s directed at him.

Why Coën might despair at him, he doesn’t know. But that niggling sense that he’s missing something grows stronger.

*

When he finally gets it, it hits him like a tidal wave.

Jaskier draws him close, hands on either side of Geralt’s face, and kisses him deeply on the mouth. Then, he throws him a wink and a flirtatious remark before sashaying off to cause trouble while Geralt works. Geralt is left blinking stupidly after him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why is Eskel in this chapter, you ask. is he strictly needed here? no, but you don't have all the facts. what are the facts? I love him
> 
> content warnings:  
> \- sex  
> \- Geralt having absolutely no chill

Jaskier is gone for a while, giving Geralt plenty of time to turn the events over in his mind. He’s almost certain that he’s reading Jaskier right by now, but there’s always that small drop of doubt.

On one hand: you don’t go around kissing your friends on the lips like that unless you want that friendship to include less clothing and more bodily contact. On the other: this is true for humans, but what if it isn’t for tricksters? 

Jaskier hasn’t smelled like lust, _but_ the scent of lust that Geralt is familiar with is the one pertaining to humans or Elves. Jaskier has never smelled human; of course his scent wouldn’t change in accordance with human body chemistry. Maybe he _has_ smelled like lust, but Geralt hasn’t been able to pick up on it. He can’t rely on his nose to make sense of this just yet.

If he allows himself to believe that Jaskier wants to sleep with him, then the not insignificant worry that Jaskier has only stayed by his side in order to bed him arises. Again, Geralt is in two camps about it: on one hand, it’s been months. Jaskier is attractive, so Geralt doubts he wouldn’t have been able to find another bed-mate if that was all he wanted. To invest that much time in someone just to leave them after a roll in the hay would be foolish. On the other: logic likes this does not always matter to Jaskier.

In the end, it comes down to this: if his doubts are true, will Geralt still risk it by sleeping with Jaskier? He wants to say no; their friendship is more important. Geralt doesn’t have a lot of friends, and those he does have are precious. But. Historically speaking, he doesn’t have the best track-record with making the wise decision when it comes to sex.

Fucking up is more or less guaranteed.

*

He tries to put it from his mind and focus on the Path for a while. There are monsters to kill, clients to endure, roads to walk. Jaskier will find his way back to Geralt no matter what, of that Geralt has no doubt. (He’s not yet been able to figure out _how_ Jaskier finds him so easily; when he’d asked, Jaskier had said, “You know how you can use the stars to navigate? I follow different stars.” Which was about as helpful as a single cup of water poured on a wildfire.)

There’s just one problem: having thought about Jaskier in a sexual manner means that Geralt now can’t stop thinking about Jaskier in a sexual fucking manner. And that means that Geralt is running on frustrated lust.

He briefly considers ridding himself of it at a brothel but discards the notion almost immediately. He doesn’t care to think of why that might be. It’s definitely not out of some misguided faithfulness to a trickster who may not want to bed him after all. That would be stupid. He must simply endure.

Visions of Jaskier in all kinds of sexual situations insert themselves into his daily life without warning. An inn he stays at has uncommonly luxurious furs on the bed; he imagines Jaskier sprawled there, wearing absolutely nothing. He overhears a bard in a tavern, her voice cracking as if in desire during a ballad; he pictures Jaskier’s voice do the same, right next to Geralt’s ear.

In private moments, when he gets himself off, he runs his hands over his own skin and imagines what Jaskier’s might feel like. The trickster is unscarred, soft in a way that Geralt isn’t, but he still sprouts a great deal of hair on his chest and his belly, leading down; it would be silky skin one moment, coarse hair the next. Geralt wants to feel it all. And what would it be like, to leave a chain of kisses around Jaskier’s neck? And will he pull Geralt in with just his hands, or use his legs, too, to keep him close?

(If these idle fantasies tend towards the tender rather than simply fucking, Geralt ignores that. It’s not like he doesn’t imagine the latter in extensive detail.)

*

He’s more or less arrived at the conclusion that if Jaskier shows even a hint of wanting him the next time they meet, Geralt is going to forgo any misgivings and follow Jaskier wherever he leads. It’s not the wise choice, but at this point, Geralt has lost the will to care. He’s glad that Yennefer hasn’t been around to disparage him.

Instead, he runs into Eskel. (He’s vaguely suspicious of having encountered his brothers on the road so often this year; maybe Destiny is trying to make him let down his guard and forget that it wants to fuck him over. Too bad; Geralt _never_ lets down his guard.) (That is a lie, but it helps him sleep.)

Even before people catch sight of his scars, people do a double take when they see Eskel. There’s something about him that draws the eye, something pleasing that make people overlook his eyes for a brief, brief moment. Then, they see the scars and put the pieces together.

Today, the double take has less to do with Eskel’s looks than it does with the loud companion he has trailing after him; a little black, blue-eyed cat. Geralt is instantly apprehensive. Of all animals, cats are the only ones to resists whatever charm Eskel usually has, staying true to their mission to avoid and hiss at all Witchers, but this little fluff-ball is demanding attention.

And looking right at Geralt while Eskel scratches it under its chin.

“Would you stop glaring?” Eskel says. “It’s just a cat.”

“Hmm.” Is it though? Is it really? He sniffs the air; the cat smells like wild things and fur. Not too far from what Jaskier usually smells like in animal form. And it keeps up the aggressive eye-contact as it rubs itself all over Eskel.

When Geralt relays this—with a bit too much emphasis on “I think that’s _my_ bard”—Eskel at least tries to put the cat down. Not that it helps; the tenacious thing darts between Eskel’s legs, bats at his ankles to be picked back up, and keeps eyeing Geralt like it’s having the time of its life.

Proving that he is the best of brothers, Eskel doesn’t comment on Geralt’s clenched fists or ground teeth. He even tries to remove himself from the damn cat, to little effect. If he wasn’t descending into a horrible mood by the second, Geralt would find it a little funny that a big, tough Witcher like Eskel can be flustered by a particularly bold cat.

Just as he’s about to stalk away, there’s a soft puff of air against his neck, and the next moment, Jaskier has draped himself across his back. “Ooh, someone’s tense. And who’s your friend here? And his companion?”

Eskel’s shoulders drop at once; Geralt hadn’t noticed how tightly he’d been holding himself and feels a little bad for being the cause of it. The black cat keeps demanding attention, which Eskel can now freely give. “I’m Eskel. Of the School of the Wolf. And this is… Meow.”

“Hmm,” Geralt interrupts and tilts his head back to look Jaskier in the face. (And maybe to give Jaskier access to his mouth.) Jaskier smells like… smoke? “Did you light something on fire?”

“How dare you accuse me of such things?” Jaskier says with faux outrage. Why isn’t he kissing Geralt? Why is he just smiling at him? “I merely provided the match.”

“Should I be prepared for anyone to hunt you down?” Is he being too subtle? He leans in until they’re breathing the same air.

“Not this time, dear Witcher.” Cheeky brat.

“Melitele’s tits,” Eskel mutters.

Geralt doesn’t care, because Jaskier has finally closed the distance between them to kiss Geralt hello. To the horror of all horrors, it’s just a brief, soft kiss, a quick, delicate swipe of tongue over Geralt’s lips before Jaskier is pulling back. Geralt doesn’t even get to kiss him back.

Jaskier has no idea what kind of storm he’s playing with. Or maybe he does, and that’s why he’s grinning as he saunters off to order more drinks. Geralt watches him go, eyes flittering between the bared skin of his neck to his slender waist to the bow on the back of his trousers and lower. Geralt’s hands twitch.

Eskel flicks ale at him. “Control yourself, man. I’m starting to feel like I’m in a brothel.”

While it’s on the tip of his tongue to respond with, “excellent idea, why don’t you go now”, Geralt somehow manages not to kick his brother out the door. Instead, he glares a bit at Eskel, glares a bit more at the cat for having nearly fooled him into thinking it was Jaskier, and settles in to enjoy the evening and plan how to get Jaskier into bed.

This might require a bit of charm on his part.

*

Because purposeful charm is not Geralt’s forte, what comes out when they’re finally alone is not seduction, but doubt.

“If we fuck, will you leave?” he asks. They’re in another inn, some miles out from Creyden. Jaskier has been playing the part of travelling bard and is gorgeously sweaty and flushed from his performance, and when he looks at him, Geralt suffers a deep, sharp sting of attraction. 

Jaskier blinks at him. Slouched against the wall, one foot up on the bench, he looks debauched. “The way you ask that makes me question whether you’re asking me to fuck off after you’ve endured me, in which case my answer will be ‘that doesn’t sound like consent, so no’; or whether you’re worried that I’ve been pretending to be your friend all this time just to fuck you, in which case my answer is ‘are you, perhaps, short of a marble’?”

Parsing through that river of words, Geralt decides it means that Jaskier will still be his friend if they tumble into bed. With that resolved, he holds Jaskier’s gaze and says, “So. _Want_ to fuck, then?”

Jaskier huffs a laugh. “Hold your horses, Witcher, I’m not that easy.”

Geralt tilts his head. “Hmm.”

“Excellent point, let’s go.”

*

With the door shut between them and the world, Geralt lets himself look at Jaskier the way he’s wanted to for weeks. He takes in the blue of his eyes, the pink of his lips, the way his hair curls from the heat, and sweat beads on his skin. Jaskier’s doublet is open to reveal the lacy shirt beneath, nearly translucent.

“Unless you want your clothes ruined…” He lets it hang in the air, the threat clear.

Jaskier meets his challenge with one of his own. “I could say the same for yours.”

Their clothes fall where they may and the mood changes.

Geralt is half-hard, rising steadily as Jaskier prowls towards him. Jaskier may not have fangs or claws, but in this moment, he doesn’t care to hide that he isn’t human, isn’t what might be deemed ‘good’ in the grand scheme of things. Otherworldly power lurks in his gaze, making Geralt’s skin pebble with warning. His mouth is dry, his breath unsteady. 

As if in a battle of wills, he lets Jaskier walk around him, lets him stand at his back as if Geralt has no fear. (He doesn’t, at least not in the normal sense of the word. He should be wary though; Jaskier isn’t a monster, but only because he can’t be bothered to be, and with how badly Geralt wants him… There’s a lot of ways he could ruin Geralt in this moment.)

But he doesn’t. He puts his hands on Geralt’s hips and smooths them downward, squeezing and fondling. His teeth graze Geralt’s shoulders, little nips that could be kisses if Jaskier wasn’t intent on playing with him. Geralt holds himself still, lets Jaskier map out this new boundary between them. His body fights against the stillness, wants to tremble, to reach out, to explore.

When Jaskier presses against him, fully hard, that bit of control snaps.

*

Geralt wakes in the middle of the night to Jaskier sliding his hand over his cock. There’s nothing tentative about the movement, even if it counts as a question: _can you go again_? In answer, he twitches. Even in the dark, Jaskier’s smirk is visible.

He crawls into Geralt’s lap, leans forward to kiss him, and Geralt meets him eagerly. At the beginning of the night, Jaskier had tasted like wine, fruity and sharp, but now, he tastes watery, a little like the mint they used to clean their teeth, and a bit like Geralt himself; the latter makes Geralt rumble with pleasure.

He was right to imagine Jaskier as handsy all those lonely nights, right to think he’d push and pull at Geralt until he had him just where he wanted him. Now, he lets Geralt touch him only until his need wins out and then puts Geralt’s hand between his legs.

They’d cleaned up after the last round, and Jaskier’s already tightened back up a little, but even then, his body gives way to Geralt’s fingers easily, and there’s a slickness inside of him that makes Geralt mind spin. He was here, he was inside Jaskier, and he’ll be inside him again in just a few moments, and maybe tomorrow, Jaskier will want him again, and that’s heady, that’s unbelievable, and Geralt _wants_.

They scrabble for the small bottle of oil and what little remains in it, just enough left to slick the way properly. When Geralt pushes in, Jaskier breathes out a stuttered, hoarse gasp, his voice revealing what they’ve been doing all night. As if the necklace of bruises that Geralt kissed into his skin aren’t enough of a reminder.

It’s less desperate than the first times, but by no means slow. Geralt had learned quickly where to lay his hands, where to put his mouth, so eager to imprint himself on Jaskier’s memory. Jaskier is sensitive along his collarbones, at the soft bend of his elbows; he shivers and tightens when Geralt runs his fingers over the skin of lower belly, over the place where thigh meets groin.

The sounds he makes are helpless, and Geralt cannot help but match them. He says more in this moment that he has all week, even if the utterances aren’t words but groans and pants. Jaskier, on his lap with his hands on Geralt’s chest, gyrates his hips faster, taking his pleasure from their coupling without shame.

The kiss he presses into the dimple of Geralt’s chin is almost Geralt’s undoing. Suddenly senseless with the need to get Jaskier there first, he rolls them over, presses Jaskier into the sweat-soiled sheets with his body, and jackrabbits his hips until the smaller man is crying out with every thrust. If it weren’t for the sting of Jaskier’s nails biting into his ass, he’d almost be convinced it were a dream.

When Jaskier comes, he takes Geralt with him, chanting, “in me, in me, stay, don’t go, I want you in me.” Even after he’s come, Geralt keeps thrusting, his brain convinced that he can get deeper, that he can put a piece of himself inside Jaskier and stay there forever, claiming—

He shuts down that thought. That’s a bit much for now.

(But maybe not? Maybe if he plays his cards right… this doesn’t have to be a one-time thing. They’re friends, they obviously enjoy each other, there’s no way this couldn’t be a part of their routine. A casual, mutually satisfactory thing.)

Geralt ruins all notions of it being casual by blurting out, “What are we?”

Jaskier freezes. Then starts guffawing.

“ _Jaskier._ ”

“I can’t— _hah_ , I can’t—” the trickster gasps, lost in mirth as Geralt scowls at him. “It took months for you to admit we’re friends, but we fuck once, and suddenly, you want a declaration? You are _un_ believable—”

“You can just say no.” It’s fine. It’s completely fine.

“Absolutely not! There are no take-backs!”

“Take-backs? I didn’t say anything that’d need a take-back—”

“Nope, uh-uh, it’s official now, you’re stuck with me, congratulations, I’m a fucking delight.”

Geralt wants to sigh, but he brought this on himself.

*

*

*

“I want to say I’m surprised that all it took was one fuck,” Yennefer says. “But I’m not.”

Geralt grumbles, “Wasn’t just _one_.”

“One _night_ , then. One night, and you think it’s a good idea to keep him for life.”

“Hmm.”

“Yes, I know he’s very pretty, but by Melitele, is he annoying.”

“Hmm.”

“He’s _my_ best friend, Geralt, I get to insult him when I want to.”

“ _Hmm_.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you.”

*

*

*

“I love you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“I can love you back.”

“… well, I suppose there’s that. How dare you. No, don’t kiss me, I’m being petulant. Geralt! _Geralt_! I said—no, keep going, I’ve changed my mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all have been amazing and as always, i am on [tumblr](https://purpurred.tumblr.com/) if anyone wants to scream at me about these idiots
> 
> so, as i told one of u lovely readers, i'm plotting a longer entry in the Non-Human Jaskier series, this one inspired by the movie Hercules and starting right after the Mountain Break-Up and largely canon-compliant with season 1. I'm hoping that the gods will let me start writing soon, and i hope to see y'all again, 'cus you are literal sunshine and i do a silly little head-wiggle when i see your responses


End file.
